Foreign News: Dinner at 7:30

In Britain recently, pawky, irrepressible Sunday Express Columnist Nat Gubbins happened on a learned report from Cornell University. “Cannibalism,” it said, “has been an adjuster of the food supply to the population and of the population to the food supply . . . but currently it cannot be discussed in polite society.”

That was enough for Gubbins. The next week his column “Sitting on the Fence” took the form of a play set in a Mayfair drawing room some time in 1955, when “every food shop in Britain is empty.” Charles and Celia are seated on a divan.

Charles: You look lovely tonight. Positively delicious.

Celia: Don’t say things like that, Charles. Not these days. It sounds quite frightening.

Charles: I didn’t mean anything horrid —really I didn’t.

Celia: But you must be hungry, poor darling.

Charles: I’m starving.

Celia (sighing): I simply don’t know what we’re going to do. There’s nothing to eat at all, anywhere.

Charles: Except people. . . .

(Their discussion continues and Celia rises to pace nervously about.)

Charles: After all, it’s not much worse than eating pigs. I once met a pig with big brown eyes and long lashes.

(Celia stops suddenly in her walk.)

Celia: That wasn’t funny. It was in filthy bad taste.

Charles: Oh I’m sorry, Celia. I wasn’t thinking of your big brown eyes and long lashes, really I wasn’t. This pig’s eyes were reddish brown, not velvety brown like yours.

(Celia continues her agitated walk.)

Charles: As this is a question of survival, I think we ought to take a more rational view of the whole business. . . . Let’s face the facts. Your Uncle Edward is looking fitter than he’s ever looked before. And what’s more, there’s much more room in that overcrowded house of his now that—well, now that there are fewer people in it.

Celia (stopping and staring out of the window): Maybe you’re right.

Charles: I’m sure I’m right . . . it’s been both a nutritional gain and a social gain. You can hardly say that Uncle Ed ward’s sister was much of a social asset.

Celia: No. Hardly. . . .

(Celia opens the window and makes a sign to Uncle Edward, who approaches through the garden carrying a sack.)

Charles: Celia.

Celia: Yes, Charles.

Charles: You know I love you, don’t you? . . .

(Uncle Edward is now at the window and climbing stealthily through.)

Charles: Come over and sit beside me, Celia.

(Celia walks over and sits beside him.)

Charles (taking her hand): Celia.

Celia: Yes?

Charles: I’m terribly hungry, Celia.

Celia: Poor darling.

Charles: You look so delicious. Did I tell you that before?

Celia (smiling): Even before the food shops were empty.

(He puts his arms round her as Uncle Edward creeps up on them with the sack.)

Charles: Poor Celia. Getting thinner every day.

Celia: Poor Charles, getting hungrier every day.

Charles: Do you know what I’m thinking?

Celia: I expect so.

Charles: What are you thinking?

Celia: The same.

Charles: And you don’t mind?

Celia: Not now.

Charles: I couldn’t bear anybody else.

Celia: Nor could I.

(Uncle Edward makes a sudden spring at Charles, puts the sack over his head, and holds him still.)

Uncle Edward (to Celia): Dinner tonight at 7:30.

Celia: I can hardly wait.